And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

And O, when I am stricken, and my heart,

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin! O, I could drink the cup,

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
Nathaniel Parker Willis.

BAPTISM OF CHRIST.

T was a green spot in the wilderness,

IT

Touched by the river Jordan. The dark pine Never had dropped its tassels on the moss Tufting the leaning bank; nor on the grass Of the broad circle stretching evenly To the straight larches, had a heavier foot Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, And, hushing as they spread into the light, Circled the edges of the pebbled tank Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. Hither had come the Apostle of the wild, Winding the river's course. 'T was near the flush Of eve, and, with a multitude around,

Who from the cities had come out to hear,

He stood breast-high amid the running stream,
Baptizing as the Spirit gave
him power.
His simple raiment was of camel's hair,
A leathern girdle close about his loins,
His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat
The locust and wild honey of the wood,
But like the face of Moses on the mount
Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye
Burned the mild fire of love,—and as he spoke
The ear leaned to him, and persuasion swift
To the chained spirit of the listener stole.

Silent upon the green and sloping bank

The people sat, and while the leaves were shook
With the birds dropping early to their nests,
And the gray eve came on, within their hearts
They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream
Still turned its silver courses from his breast
As he divined their thought. "I but baptize,”
He said, "with water; but there cometh One,
The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare
E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire
And with the Holy Ghost." And lo! while yet
The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes,
And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid
His raiment off, and with his loins alone
Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs,
In their angelic slightness, meek and bare,
He waited to go in. But John forbade,
And hurried to his feet and stayed him there,
And said, "Nay, Master! I have need of thine,
Not thou of mine!" And Jesus, with a smile
Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks,
And answered, "Suffer it to be so now;
For thus it doth become me to fulfil

All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream,
He took around him the Apostle's arm,
And drew him gently to the midst. The wood
Was thick with the dim twilight as they came
Up from the water. With his clasped hands
Laid on his breast, the Apostle silently
Followed his master's steps, when lo! a light,
Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun,

Yet lambent as the softly burning stars,
Enveloped them, and from the heavens away
Parted the dim blue ether like a veil;

66

And as a voice, fearful exceedingly,
Broke from the midst, This is my much loved Son
In whom I am well pleased," a snow-white dove,
Floating upon its wings, descended through;
And shedding a swift music from its plumes,
Circled, and fluttered to the Saviour's breast.

Nathaniel Parker Willis.

Lebanon, the Mount.

MOUNT LEBANON.

UT see! Day's king, with robes of glory on,

BUT

The sun, hath climbed sky-piercing Lebanon!
Like thousand arrows dipped in ruby light,

Beams dart from rock to rock, all heaven is bright;
The hanging pines shake off their sombre sleep,
With freshened breath the mountain breezes sweep;
The cascades, dashing joyous, catch the ray,
And leap from crag to crag in silvery spray.
Nestling in dells, the hamlet hides from view,
Smoke o'er the deep green foliage curling blue,
But high above, on rocks exposed and bare,
Gray convents hang, as poised in upper air:
The matin bell with music loads the gale,
And listening echo answers from the vale.

O'er all, the mountains lift their crests of snow,
Nature's grand crown where stainless jewels glow;
E'en the huge cedars, standing dark and lone,

That years and storms have bowed, but not o'erthrown,
Whose shade might hallow priest or prophet's tomb,
Hail morning's smile, and half forget their gloom.
Nicholas Michell.

YE

THE CEDARS OF LEBANON.

ancients of the earth, beneath whose shade

Swept the fierce banners of earth's mightiest kings,

When millions for a battle were arrayed,

And the sky darkened with the vulture's wings.

Long silence followed on the battle-cries;

First the bones whitened, then were seen no more;
The summer grasses sprang for summer skies,
And dim tradition told no tales of yore.

The works of peace succeeded those first wars,

Men left the desert tents for marble walls;

Then rose the towers from whence they watched the stars,

And the vast wonders of their kingly halls.

And they are perished, those imperial towers
Read not amid the midnight stars their doom;
The pomp and art of all their glorious hours
Lie hidden in the sands that are their tomb.